It looks like a small leaf is trapped in the door of the washing machine. It’s trying to get out, not in. I can tell by the way it’s pointing, at me, asking to be rescued.
It’s clear this time she tried to wash a tree. A little one admittedly, but I’m sure she had use her foot to persuade it in. She didn’t like the shade of it’s leaves. It didn’t fit in with the others in her garden. It wore a demanding shade of green and she doesn’t like to share attention. She put it on a hot wash with a red sock, hoping to induce autumn. It didn’t work. The leaves stayed green until the spin cycle when they promptly dropped off. She pegged it out to dry while all the other trees giggled behind their leaves at the little winter tree shivering and bare and upended.
Next time she plans to wash a rain cloud. She swears that with a little effort she’ll get those grey stains out.